


Brushes With Death

by tromana



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, The Mentalist
Genre: 5 Things, Character Death, Close Calls, Crossover, Gen, Near Death Experience, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tromana/pseuds/tromana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Death met a member of the CBI's Serious Crimes Unit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rigsby

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Five Times Baby Bang over on LiveJournal. With thanks to Miss Peg for betaing.

"Mom…" he whined as she opened the door to the car.

"No, Wayne, I promised I'd pick you up, so I have."

Rigsby glanced nervously over his shoulder, where his friends had congregated. No doubt, they were snickering over his mom's purple car and the fact it was probably far too old to be considered safe for the road. But she loved the little vehicle and wasn't going to give up on it anytime soon. Just like she insisted that she wasn't going to give up on his dad, because for some unfathomable reason, he was apparently worth it. Whatever 'it' was.

Unlike many fourteen year olds, Wayne Rigsby did not dote upon his father. That was partially because he had a wise head on young shoulders and partially because he had an exceptionally good judgment of character. Considering the kind of people that his father dragged home (or scum, in Rigsby's eyes), he'd had to be. Otherwise, he would have landed up in the wrong crowds and would probably have already broken the law on several occasions despite the fact he had only just begun to hit puberty.

But his mom, he thought the world of her. However, because of their family set-up, she was just as protective of him as he was of her. That meant she often embarrassed him in front of his friends and just clung onto him that little bit too tightly. Sometimes, he wished that she would learn to let go and leave him to it. He was growing older and she knew he was a good kid and that he hadn't really taken after his father at all. The problem was not that she didn't trust him, but because she didn't trust other people around him. She was so scared that he would drift off of the straight and narrow and end up just like his dad.

"Fine," he agreed reluctantly as he sat beside her.

He wasn't ashamed to be seen with her, but it didn't mean he liked the teasing he got from his friends which came whenever he climbed into her _purple_ car. It was all meant in jest, he knew that. However, it didn't mean the callous words didn't hurt on occasion. He tried to think of it as character building, something to learn from. However, he couldn't help but resent the fact others teased him based on the scant knowledge they had of his upbringing. He hated that so many people had preconceptions of him. Rigsby also silently hoped that, one day, he'd inherit his grandfather's height. At least then, it would give them one less thing to tease him about.

The journey home was quiet. She asked him how training had gone and he'd informed her as thoroughly as he could. His mom liked to pay an interest in his progress; he would never have gotten away with telling her that it had merely gone 'okay'. That just wouldn't have been enough information for her. Rigsby had long since learned that if he didn't talk willingly, then she would remain persistent until she got what she wanted. Besides, he actually liked talking to his mom. He felt safe with her, which was more than could be said for his dad.

"Wayne, honey, can you get the bags out of the trunk for me? I need to go…"

She trailed off and Rigsby nodded. He knew exactly what she meant, but she was too polite to specify. With a grin, he unlocked the trunk and allowed it to swing open. Whistling to himself, he grabbed as many bags as possible from it. Just before she'd picked him up, his mom had quite obviously done the big monthly shop. That was a good thing; he knew they were running low on certain groceries. She always blamed him for that; said that as he was a growing boy, he was now eating her out of house and home. Hollow legs, she called him and it always made him laugh, even if, as far as he was concerned, he was showing no sign of this supposed growth spurt. Instead, he smirked at the thought and went to carry the food inside.

He'd barely made it two steps inside when he heard an almighty scream.

It was one that was all too familiar and it made his blood run cold. His mom was in danger.

Rigsby dropped the bags and without a second thought, went running into the house. There, he saw his mother, lying bruised and battered on the floor. There was a crack to her skull, which she was bleeding profusely from. Over her broken body, Rigsby's father stood, wielding a baseball bat. At that moment, Rigsby saw red and lunged at him.

What happened next was a blur, but the next thing he remembered was being in the back of an ambulance, clutching hold of his mom's hand tightly.

He didn't even realize he had company.

Next to him, was sitting a figure swathed in black and clutching hold of a scythe. There was a slight sparkle in his deep, black eyes and his grin was fixed. This man was skeletal, literally. All there was to him was just bone. He also happened to be the anthropomorphic personification of Death. That meant he had very few qualms about his appearance. It also meant that his job affected him less than it probably should have done so.

Because Death's job _was_ death.

It was his responsibility to encourage reluctant souls onto the other side. He was there when any creature died (except for rats, of course. Most people had a small section of their soul that they didn't like. Death was luckier than most in the sense that he been able to successfully expunge himself of his least favorable characteristic. Besides, the Death of Rats at least seemed fairly happy with his lot. And he acted as a useful messenger from time to time, too.)

Out of all the species Death worked with, he had a particular interest in two: humans and cats. He found he related to cats on some level and almost envied their lifestyle choices. It was half the reason, much to Susan's dismay, that he had chosen to bring more cats than most people deemed entirely necessary to his domain. And as for humans, for some reason, he found them fascinating. It was why he had adopted Ysabell, for one.

But it wasn't just his adoptive family he felt something for. There were, on rare occasions, other humans which intrigued him.

And for some reason, Wayne Rigsby was one of them.

Death watched, almost amused as the young man whispered urgently to his mother. His left leg was twitching repeatedly, probably some kind of nervous reaction to the situation in hand. In fact, his whole body shook a little. He was in shock; that much was obvious. The boy's day had probably started off entirely normally and he was most likely looking forward to spending the afternoon with his mom, but his father had ruined those plans.

His mother's hourglass had forewarned Death that her demise was imminent. Rigsby, however, didn't have that sort of foreknowledge to hand. Instead, Rigsby could never predict when his dad would decide to waltz back into their lives and turn everything upside down once more. The attack on his mom was probably even more surprising. Rigsby hadn't been present when they had bumped into each other on the street a couple of weeks ago and had a blazing argument. It was probably for the best, because the topic of the argument had been him. If he knew that, then Rigsby would most likely have blamed himself for what was due to happen to her as soon as they arrived at the hospital.

Death had seen Rigsby attack his dad, he'd been there to carry out the duty. He had been as punctual as ever, had appeared on the Roundworld five minutes before Rigsby and his mom arrived home. It didn't matter that it would be an hour or so before the woman was actually due to pass away; Death hated to be late. If he was, then it always meant he ended up having to work late and caused problems later in the day. Still, the boy had done an admirable job at trying to protect the woman who had brought him up. He always admired it when people had the strength of character to do such things, even if it meant hurting family as a consequence. This young man obviously had a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong and understood that his father was no good. He had learned quickly, clearly.

It was just a shame that he was a little too late to save his mom.


	2. Van Pelt

It had been a long semester and Van Pelt was finally, finally looking forward to the long break ahead.

She loved college, really, she did. It had given her the opportunity to spread her wings a little, to get away from the overprotectiveness of her parents and the shadow that her elder sister unintentionally cast upon her. Sometimes, it was harder being the younger of two girls, especially when her sister was so vivacious and outgoing. It seemed ironic that Melody, with her dark curls and chocolate brown eyes, shined like a star while she was stuck with the flaming red hair which made her stand out like a sore thumb.

Despite the fact that they had their disagreements and differences, Van Pelt did love Melody passionately. How could she not? She was her big sister, somebody she had always looked up to and when they'd been younger, she had been more than happy to chase her around like a faithful puppy dog.

And she did miss her, more than she would dare to admit out loud.

Just before she had left for college, Melody had sworn blind that she would keep in very regular contact with her, promising to call every other day, if necessary. However, that promise disappeared into the ether as soon as Melody found herself a new boyfriend. Initially, Van Pelt didn't have time to be angry; she was too busy settling in with a new group of people, making new friends and of course, studying hard. However, as time went on, she missed having those few minutes every so often just to catch up with what was going on back home.

And even worse, her sister was growing distant and more evasive over what she was telling her. Van Pelt had spoken to her parents, briefly, about the fact, and they didn't seem quite as concerned. Then again, they were seeing Melody far more frequently than she was and more than capable of keeping an eye on her. They had even gone so far as to say that Melody's new boyfriend cut the fine figure of a young man. That he knew how to treat a girl and was looking after her well.

Even so, that wasn't enough to stop the alarm bells from blaring out. Even with just a few weeks of training under her belt, Van Pelt had already touched upon domestic abuse scenarios far too many times for comfort (or, at least, those were the ones that stuck in her memory). The fact of the matter was abuse was the sticking point when it came to so many crimes, to the extent that it almost became surprising when they came across a case study where it _wasn't_ involved at school.

Naturally, as a result, Van Pelt was applying it to her current predicament.

Half of her kept trying to tell herself off, convince herself that she was just projecting her new-found knowledge and letting it extrapolate into unfounded fears. Melody was fine. The reason that she had grown so distant and aloof was because they were both so busy now. She was settling into a new life, with new friends at school and Melody was distracting herself with her new love. And despite how close they'd been (at times) as children, it was only natural that sooner or later, they'd find themselves distancing from one another.

It wasn't enough to stop the nagging sensation, however. The 'buts' and 'what ifs' had threatened to overwhelm her throughout her journey back home. Though her parents had liked the new boyfriend, it was entirely possible that he was doing that explicitly so they would trust him with their little girl. That he was trying to slowly, but surely put a wedge between them. After all, how else would he have been able to mess with the mind of Amos Van Pelt? A famous football coach who was notoriously protective of his two precious daughters? Or maybe, that was half the thrill…

Van Pelt shook her head, her long red hair dancing across her back. No, she was overreacting. They'd just been busy.

But she knew, deep down, she still wouldn't be happy until she saw Melody with her own two eyes and had the undeniable evidence that everything was absolutely fine.

When she finally pulled up in front of the family home and saw Melody's car parked up front, the worry in the pit of her stomach quelled briefly. If Melody was here, then she had managed to escape her boyfriend to keep the rushed promise she'd made two weeks ago. Quickly, Van Pelt checked herself. She didn't know who Melody's boyfriend was. He could have been exactly how her parents had described him: good and honorable. There was no need to think of her sister running away from the man when she didn't know the full story.

With a sigh, she pulled her suitcase out of the trunk of the car and hauled it to the front door. After fishing her keys out and letting herself in, she called out a cheery 'I'm home,'expecting somebody to answer immediately. Not even the dogs – Mimi and Bruiser – bothered to greet her with slobbering kisses and muddy paws. Van Pelt frowned, and then realized that her mom was probably just out walking them. It was about the time they had their daily exercise, anyway.

After dumping her bags in the hallway, Van Pelt ambled towards the kitchen. She was hungry; it had been a long journey and the anticipation of getting home had been more than enough to prevent her from stopping for a bite to eat at a roadside diner. With a wistful smile, she pushed the door open and that was when her world came crashing down around her.

As soon as she had knocked the sharp kitchen knife away from her, Van Pelt knelt beside her sister's prone body and pressed two fingers up against her pulse. There was nothing to feel. But, oh God, there was so much blood, so she knew she shouldn't have been surprised, but still, she could feel the panic rising inside of her. But she pushed it aside, because she had to. Her sister still had half a chance and she needed her. Van Pelt scrambled back to her feet and ran through the kitchen to the telephone. Hastily, she dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. As soon as she knew an ambulance was on its way, she returned her attentions to Melody.

This was where all that first aid training she had started developing from an early age came into good use. Swiftly, she moved Melody's body into the appropriate position to carry out CPR. Then, she locked her fingers together and started the chest compressions, swiftly alternating with the rescue breaths. All the while, she muttered prayers of hope to herself, hoping in vain that somebody would listen to her. She didn't know how long Melody had been unconscious for, never mind when her heart had stopped beating. For all she knew, she could have been working in vain.

But it didn't stop her from trying. Nothing would stop that until she knew conclusively from a trained medic that Melody Van Pelt had passed on.

In frustration, Van Pelt called out desperately for help, but the only person who was in earshot couldn't do a thing to help her. After all, she wasn't even aware that Death himself was in the kitchen with her.

Death watched cautiously as Van Pelt fought in vain. The chord severing Melody Van Pelt to the world had long since been cut. He should know; he'd been the one to do it, quite literally. He'd seen the look on the young woman's ethereal face as her sister rushed in, just moments after her death. How she had realized what a grave mistake she had made, in deciding to end everything. Still, there was nothing that he could have done. She'd made her decision and now, it was time for her to find the afterlife of her choosing.

And time for Van Pelt to adjust to the fact that her sister had become so desperate, that she had needed to end her own life instead of confiding in her. So, when Van Pelt read the suicide note, with the mentions of depression, and worry, and yes, the abusive boyfriend, it was then that she broke down. She had just realized that all of her fears had been completely accurate and that she should have trusted her instincts instead of just brushing them aside.

It was also at that moment when Death chose to disappear back into the shadows and give her the space to grieve alone.


	3. Cho

This was something he'd been trained to do, but that didn't stop the nerves from fluttering in the pit of his stomach. It was also meant to be his way of getting some structure, some discipline back into his life after years of chaos. He had also promised his mother that he would at least try and get back on the straight and narrow. Cho was sick of the sorrowful look in her eyes, the fact that she looked so disappointed in her only son, her only child, each and every time she saw him. Besides, it had been his father who had destroyed his baseball career before it had even had a chance to blossom, and it had been such a long while ago now.

It was time to let bygones be bygones. He couldn't live his life based on regrets and disappointments. Cho needed something more solid, more tangible. Besides, the Avon Park Playboys were pushing the boundaries further and further. And he was growing distant from what they did; he was developing a moral backbone. He needed to get out.

The army had been his first thought and he hadn't regretted it in an instant. The training was tough and pushed him to his very limits, but he'd dug his feet in and excelled. He wanted to make his mom proud, to apologize for all the heartache and misery he'd caused her. He wanted to pay back his country for the damage he'd caused; show that he was proud his parents had emigrated from Korea to the United States.

And even though he'd attempt to deny it, he still wanted that little bit of a thrill, the one that a life of crime had given him. This was the closest replica he could get to it through legal means.

However, that didn't stop him from wondering if this was the right idea. The people in this country, had they wanted to go to war with the superpower that was America? Why was America fighting them and making them an enemy, anyway? As far as he knew, it wasn't due to the fact that there was some untold evil there, but oil. That was all. Just resources and he was expected to kill for the country over them.

This was the kind of thing he'd been attempting to escape.

Still, he clutched hold of his rifle tightly and followed his sergeant major dutifully. They had been given a task to do and though he didn't necessarily agree with the morality behind it, he was going to carry it out to the best of his ability. After all, that was what he was being paid to do. A job. That was all being a soldier in the army was. And at least he was being paid for it, unlike in his previous lifestyle where he just took what he wanted, regardless of the consequences.

It didn't take long for them to get involved in a fray. They'd been trying to take control of one of the towns approximately five miles out from camp, with little success. It was closer to the oil supply than some of the towns they'd already succeeded in getting hold of and thus, a necessary requirement for the task in hand. Cho hated the fighting; there was so much less bloodshed involved in just talking and debating between political leaders. It was a shame that there had to be the loss of life in order to get people to wake up to such issues. Once upon a time, he would have been too blinded to understand that concept, but now he appreciated the fact. He was able to view things more rationally, with less childhood angst and rage than he'd once had.

A shot came whistling past his ear and embedded itself in a nearby van. He ducked behind a crumbling wall and caught his breath. That was close; too close for comfort, really. Cho held onto his rifle tightly. He'd fired a gun on many an occasion, but this was the first time he'd used it in combat and for a supposedly honorable reason. The ironic thing was that his mother was so proud of her son for doing this, when she'd been so ashamed of him running with the Playboys. However, the end result was exactly the same: somebody would land up dying. It was just one was seen as being good in the eyes of the country and its citizens and the other was seen as being one hundred percent illegal.

Eventually, he steeled himself and peeked over the wall. One of the enemy was nearby, just behind a hillock. He noticed the man staring outwards, trying desperately to make his shot. A quick scan of the horizon suggested that this was the last man standing; that their adversaries had just been a small group of freedom fighters, making a last-ditch effort to make a stand. Cho closed his eyes as he squeezed the trigger tightly. The other man had attempting to fire at precisely the same moment, but Cho's reactions had been quicker.

A groan of agony and the thump of flesh hitting sandy soil suggested that he had hit his target with practiced ease. That it had taken just the one shot to end the life of another human being. One who had just been trying to defend himself and his town.

When the sergeant major shouted clear, Cho quickly made his way to the body. His eyes were stinging slightly, but he stubbornly ignored it. Now was not the time or place to get emotional. Besides, he'd had it drilled into him since he was small that men simply did not show their emotions if they wanted to honor the family name.

"Iceman, you okay?"

He looked up at his colleague and friend, Private Simon Marshall and nodded dourly. Cho hadn't told any of them to call him Iceman, nor had he informed them of his dubious history. That was private. Instead, he briefly wondered if the whole world really considered him to have a heart of steel. Otherwise, why would they have continually picked the same nickname for him again and again?

"Yup. He's dead."

"I could have told you that."

Cho offered a silent prayer for the deceased as the guilt began to set in. All he'd been doing was trying to protect his country from the invading forces and yet, he'd been forced to pay with his life for it. He didn't expect anyone to hear his words asking for forgiveness or for the man he'd just killed, but he'd heard that it may have made him feel better.

It didn't.

His words, however, didn't go unnoticed. Death stood beside the fallen soldier and inclined his skeletal head ever so slightly towards the man. He'd been present at Cho's other killings, the ones he'd carried out during his time with the Playboys. Each time he'd been heartless, merciless in the act of murder and seemed to shrug it off without a second thought.

Death hated seeing such a lack of mercy and it had made him count the days until Cho would be the one to meet the sharp end of his scythe.

However, this incident had softened him. Had made him realize that death always had a very human cost. Somewhere, out there, this man would have a family that would be mourning him. Maybe even a son and a daughter who would be wondering why daddy wasn't going to be coming home. The guilt alone had made him more human, rather than a machine rather akin to the golems back on Discworld. Remorse was always a very honorable trait, especially when found hand in hand with those wielding power.

It made Death wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was hope for Kimball Cho yet.

Death left Cho and his colleague to get on with their task. He didn't need to see anymore, not today. Instead he turned on his heels and headed towards his trusted steed. Binky whinnied slightly as his master approached him and waited calmly for Death to mount. After scratching his faithful horse a little on the nose, he did so with practiced ease.

It was time for them to go home and besides, there was something about Roundworld which made Binky ever so slightly nervous. Probably something to do with the fact he was a significantly larger creature and found it harder to cope with the different gravity field.


	4. Lisbon

The flames flickered fiercely around her, but Lisbon ignored them. She wasn't suicidal to even the slightest degree; on the contrary, Lisbon had plenty to live for. However, so did the three year old who was currently trapped in her bedroom. If anything, the girl had barely had a taste of life and now, it was looking likely that the girl wouldn't even get the chance to truly experience anything outside of a sheltered life with her parents. And that was because of an arsonist, or rather, their child murderer trying to destroy the evidence contained in this house before the authorities got hold of it. The bastard was too late for that, but Lisbon would be damned if she let him steal another life in attempt to protect his sorry backside. It sickened her to think that the man even considered putting yet another innocent child's life at risk to try and get away with a heinous crime. He'd already murdered the elder brother and yet, the girl could still be saved.

She coughed as the smoke thickened and hurried on upwards. The terrified howling of the little girl was almost a comfort; it meant that she wasn't too late and that her recklessness wasn't all in vain. It kept her focused on the task in hand: get the kid and then get the hell out of there. The sooner that was done, the sooner she could get to the fresh air and safety. Then, she would be able to give into her instincts to curl down and rest for a second rather than fighting against them. She had willingly put herself into a dangerous situation; if she stopped, then it would be even worse and make her (and the girl's) chances of survival incredibly slim.

It felt like it took her a lifetime to reach the child's bedroom and to kick the door down, when in reality it took her approximately half a minute. However, the stress of the situation was beginning to take its toll. If she didn't hurry, then the oxygen deprivation was going to take over and then both she and little Lana were doomed to death. And if the lack of air didn't kill her first, then the sheer temperatures she was being exposed to would do so first.

Deep down, Lisbon knew she should never have been so reckless. She wasn't trained to enter burning buildings; it was this kind of action that helped to cause the acrimonious relationship between cops and the fire department. They always saw it as the cops trying to play the hero, putting their own lives at risk and creating more work and dangerous situations for them to deal with. They may have had a point but Lana didn't have time to wait for the right professionals to arrive and Lisbon wasn't willing to stand around and do nothing. It just wasn't in her character to do such a thing.

So, without a second thought and despite Jane's pleading that she stopped to think for a second, Lisbon had dived right in.

Quickly, she scooped up the girl and attempted to placate her with a few comforting words. Though it didn't seem to do much, she also wasted a couple of precious seconds to pick up the teddy bear that the girl had been clutching ahold of. Ensuring she had a tight grip on Lana, Lisbon started to head out of the burning building. She had got all she came in for and now, she had to make sure that they both got out relatively unscathed. All she had to do was go straight downstairs, along the corridor and out of the front door, she told herself. Then, she would be fine. They both would be. Lana would be with her parents. They wouldn't have to grieve for the loss of their younger child. And she… well, she'd just be able to get back to her day to day life. Catching criminals, attempting to keep Patrick Jane in line and the like.

When a burning beam came crashing down and nearly hit her on the head, Lisbon very nearly screamed and dropped the child. She was relieved when she managed to avoid doing both and quickly tried to think of an alternative means of escape. It didn't take her long to figure out another route out; it wasn't as if she had the time to ponder the dilemma anyway. As carefully and as quickly as she could, she made her way into the dining room and somehow managed to wrestle a window open. When he heard her calling and coughing and saw her trying to emerge, Jane rushed forwards from the crowd to help. Lisbon didn't bother to thank him when he took the girl from her arms through the open window and rushed her over to the waiting EMTs. Instead, she concentrated on emerging from the death trap herself.

When she was a few feet clear from the fire and her feet were securely on the grassy lawn, Lisbon promptly collapsed.

When she awoke, she was laying in the middle of a cornfield. Frowning, she quickly scrambled to her feet and dusted herself down. Lisbon couldn't for the life of her figure out just how she had made it there, never mind falling asleep in that specific location. It seemed so random and so unlike her. She called for her team; Jane first and then the others. When they didn't answer, she grew even more disconcerted. Why the hell would she be stuck in the middle of a field of it wasn't case related? And besides, their latest case was nearly closed; the last thing she remembered before presumably falling asleep was driving to go and pick up their perp.

There was a crack behind her; the sound of somebody standing on a stick or something. Automatically, she wheeled around and drew her gun in one swift motion. When she saw who was with her, she grew ever so slightly fearful. How could _he_ of all people be there? Still, she kept her gun drawn just in case it was some elaborate party trick of Jane's concoction.

"Take off that mask," she demanded.

Death stared her in the face, quite literally. There was a twinkle of blue light in the hollow of his black eyes and it was at that moment she took a step back, frowning.

I ASSUME YOU WERE NOT EXPECTING ME?

"That's one way to put it."

YOU HAVE TWO CHOICES.

"Heaven or hell?" she quipped, interrupting him as she did so.

He didn't smile, but then again, Death's features were rather fixed into place so Lisbon didn't expect him to do so. In fact, she had expected that when she did end up on her deathbed, that she would hopefully be welcomed into the loving arms of God, not the grim reaper. She had always believed that he was fictionalized, the personification of death for use in artwork or stories. He certainly didn't have any bearing of real life. And even if he did, then he worked with the Devil.

YOU BELIEVE YOU DESERVE TO GO TO HELL?

Lisbon shrugged. Why not? Through her career, she had killed. A life was a life, regardless of the technicalities.

YOU WERE JUST ACTING WITHIN YOUR JOB DESCRIPTION. TAKE IT FROM SOMEBODY WHO KNOWS.

He indicated to the scythe in his right hand and Lisbon had to suppress a laugh. After all he did have a point. Quite literally, she decided, if she looked at the very end of his sharpened blade. It almost shone in a bluish color, like he had honed it so it could cut through time itself. Then again, considering who he was and what he did, it was probably meant to have that kind of effect.

"So, two choices, then?" she asked.

She hadn't noticed that the scenery around her had changed. That she was now standing in a corridor much like those at the CBI headquarters. Except, there were only two exits, side by side and right next to her. Behind one was a shocking white light and she could almost sense her parents calling her from beyond. And behind the other, she wasn't quite so sure but it looked rather like a hospital room. There was the beeping of machinery to support that theory, at least.

"I can't jump out of a window?" she asked weakly, only half joking.

I BELIEVE YOU WILL FIND THEY ARE LOCKED, said Death, remaining impassive and motionless as he did so. DO YOU NOT LIKE THE OPTIONS?

She spent a good long while staring at the door behind which her parents were located. Bosco too, she reckoned. If she had been given these two options then she was at least ninety five percent certain he wouldn't have deserved the fate of hell. However much they (or rather the painful loss of them) had shaped her and however much she missed them, she wasn't sure if she was ready to die. There was so much she had left to achieve.

"Life, I'll take life," she answered quickly.

VERY WELL.

The first of the two doors promptly disappeared, leaving just the one with a hospital room behind it. Lisbon knew that she would have made the same decision time and time again. Life was a gift; she couldn't just throw it away because she was tired or frustrated. But that posed one more question.

"Why are you here?"

LET'S JUST SAY I COULD NOT RESIST THE OPPORTUNITY.


	5. Jane

Never had a game of _snap_ held such a great importance in Patrick Jane's life. In fact, it came down to life or Death. Literally.

He glanced across the table at his opponent. Skeletal thin, swathed in black. The scythe, with the sharpened edge shining blue, laid on the floor beside them. This game, just the one round, dictated whether or not Death would be forced to use it.

Jane watched as Death sedately split the pack of cards between them. When he'd fingered one, taking in the design of the back, Death had given him a look which meant he immediately desisted. Somehow, it seemed that the figure before him held all the cards, figuratively speaking and Jane didn't like it. As Death was an anthropomorphic personification, unlike pretty much anybody and everybody else, Jane had been unable to read him. That was a situation he found pretty disconcerting. It was like somebody had stuffed his head in a hessian bag and was expecting him to perform as normal.

It didn't help that until five minutes ago Jane hadn't even believed that Death existed. The process of dying, yes of course, but Death himself, not so much. It didn't surprise him that it was the belief of humans themselves that was what kept him alive. In a way, Jane felt a little sorry for him. Given the skepticism in the world, it surely meant his position was growing more and more precarious.

Even more surprising was the fact that Death had agreed to allow him to play for his life. If he'd been forced to consider the figure that guided people into the afterlife, then Jane would have automatically assumed somebody more ruthless. He hadn't been able to stop himself from asking why and Death had responded that he found Jane's rigor intriguing. Jane, normally so good with the duality of words, had found that statement particularly perplexing. Of all the things to compliment a person on, it was his rigor?

Still, right now, he wasn't complaining. It gave him half a chance to win his life back.

Over snap.

When Death had refused Jane's original game of choice – chess – and requested a card game, Jane had been a little disappointed and concerned. Theoretically card games should have been a breeze for him, but it wasn't when it was impossible to read the other person's tells. He wasn't entirely sure, but Jane swore that Death had at least appeared amused when he had chosen snap, of all things, over poker, blackjack and the like. But there was a more than logical reason for it, as far as he was concerned.

It was his daughter's favorite game.

Jane had taught it to her as soon as she had memorized her numbers. Charlotte had been a precocious little thing, so it hadn't taken her long to pick up the game. When she'd died, he'd been in the process of teaching her a few other card games, but the simplicity of snap had meant it had an enduring appeal to her. Of course, he never dared to breathe a word about his secret card playing sessions with their daughter to Angela. She would have been too worried about Charlotte picking up some of his less than savory characteristics. And besides, it was their little bond. The one thing he didn't share with anybody else.

He hadn't played snap with anyone else since the day she had died. Before, it had always felt wrong, like he was dishonoring his daughter. Right now, however, it felt like the only appropriate game to play.

As he picked up his half of the deck, Jane felt a jolt of pain shoot through his body.

It was the first sensation other than sheer numbness to hit him since entering this grey wasteland and it took him almost completely off-guard. Then, he considered his current predicament. If there was ever a definition of being stuck in limbo, then Jane was almost certain that this was it. He was teetering on the edge of the precipice. One false move and he would plunge to his death. And even then, he had chosen a game of chance.

Well, chance and reflexes.

After the first few cards were laid, Jane found his thoughts straying. What had happened, what had sent him here, of all places? Red John, he realized. It should have been obvious, really. Who else would he be willing to fight to the death with? He hadn't told Lisbon where he was going or what he was doing. Of course, he wasn't going to let her know. She still clung hold of that foolish dream of stopping him from killing (or being killed by) Red John. Even after the grave error he'd made with Timothy Carter, she still considered herself as having a chance of stopping him. And besides, he couldn't even consider letting even her in on his plans. She needed her deniability; there was no point in him dragging her down in flames with him.

He blinked several times as he tried to regain his focus. When that didn't work, he shook his head violently. However, he still couldn't quite shake the image of his own, limp body slowly but surely bleeding out. How his blood was most likely pooling beside his body, after being viciously stabbed with a knife. Red John was probably still there, dipping his fingers in the still-warm liquid and painting his calling card, his signature on the wall.

Jane didn't want to imagine Lisbon's reaction when she saw that. He suspected that as much as his family's death had broken him, his own would have a similar effect on her. And she didn't deserve that kind of misery, not after everything she'd been through.

She was half of the reason he had so desperately pleaded with Death to give him a second chance.

Reluctantly, he gazed at the cards in his hand. He was losing. That was unsurprising, given the fact that he hadn't been able to concentrate for a good five minutes or so. Death remained as impassive as ever; he was probably the first being who could give Cho a run for his money when it came to stoicism. Oh, Cho. Of course, Lisbon wouldn't be the only member of the team to be hurt by his death. They all would, in different ways.

But even he couldn't be sure if they would fall together, or break separately. There was a reason why the unit had stuck together for so long, instead of drifting off with various promotions and the like. Theoretically, Van Pelt should have left for a better job years ago, especially now she had some decent experience underneath her belt. Cho had been ready to head his own unit for a while too. And of course, Lisbon was far more qualified for the Supervising Agent position than Luther Wainwright would ever have been.

It was then that Jane noticed that Death actually stalled a couple of times, explicitly to ensure that the odds evened out again. He frowned; did that mean Death, of all beings, was actually on his side? Then again, why wouldn't he be? If he didn't want to give Jane a sporting chance, then why would he have agreed to the game in the first place? It would have been far easier for him to get on with his duty than carry out some kind of fallacy that offered false hope.

Before long, they were both nearing the end of their hands, without a pair in sight. Jane faltered slightly at the moment he realized that he was down to just the one card, while Death had three. If this didn't work, then it was over. There was no going back.

Reluctantly, he laid down the last card and Death placed one on top of it. It wasn't a pair.

"I guess that's it then."

MR. JANE, I BELIEVE YOU DROPPED A CARD.

Jane looked at the ground. Sure enough, a single card was laying there. As he picked it up, he glanced back at Death's hand. Just one card was remaining there.

"You-"

The bluish light in the hollow of Death's left eye briefly disappeared, giving him the impression that he was winking. Jane nodded slightly, understanding.

PLAY ON, MR. JANE.

Tentatively, he placed it down on the pile. An ace and he immediately knew that the diamond to match his heart was resting in Death's hand. Slowly, Death placed it down and withdrew his hand.

"Snap," Jane said, covering the full deck with his right hand.

I DO BELIEVE YOU WIN, MR. JANE.

A few seconds later, the loud beeping of machinery and the stench of disinfectant lulled Jane wide awake. He glanced over to his side and sure enough, there was Teresa Lisbon, the relief evident on her face.

He couldn't begin to think just how lucky he was to be alive.


End file.
